Nope, Mom. Still not a Lesbian.

On Tuesday afternoon my mother called me.

“I looked at your pictures on Facebook,” she said. “Are you sure you are not a lesbian?!?”

Now in my mind I was doing a mental survey of all of the pictures I had posted of my debaucherous birthday evening. I knew there were some doozies in there but I was not quite sure which one had led her to such a strong accusation.

“Yeah, Mom. I am pretty sure. I think I would know by now.”

“Well, there has got to be something wrong with you because that boy is hot!”

Ahhh. Now it sunk in. She was referring to the Puerto Rican who had appeared from nowhere on my birthday, without a month of contact, at the point when I was already half gone.

At first, I had been thrilled to see him – he is a really nice guy after all - but before you could say El Caliente he turned up that Latin heat that makes me a little uncomfortable. At least on an ordinary day. He is awfully hands-ie. And we were in the middle of a dive bar not a dance club. When the party ventured to a different outdoor patio he came along and baulked when I began speaking to someone else. He asked if that guy was trying to get my number. I said he wasn’t, and he wasn’t – yet, but still it kind of freaked me out.

I have never, ever, had a guy act jealous over me, least of all someone I was barely seeing and I really didn’t know how to handle it. I suppose some women might find it attractive but I don’t think I am one of them. It just made me claustrophobic and being that I am actually highly claustrophobic, not just metaphorically, and since I most definitely was not just metaphorically ‘feeling no pain,’ I wasn’t really into it.

When sobriety and the 12 hour hang over kicked in, I couldn’t help but think of the irony. I cannot count how many times I have wished over the years that someone I was dating would at least act the tiniest bit jealous – like that might be some sort of validation of our relationship. They never did and while this latest incident does not clear them of all apathy, I can now say with total conviction that the appearance of a jealous man is a lot like pleated Capri trousers. It doesn’t matter how attractive the model is, they are still just wrong.